pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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Enjolras has, over his months here, gotten more or less accustomed to conversations with Bar. With Combeferre looking on in fascination, however, he's newly reminded of the depth of peculiarity inherent in a discussion in which one half of the dialogue comes in the form of notes in orange crayon (and legible but extremely strange and rather childish handwriting, to 19th century eyes) written on small paper napkins.

Nonetheless, the conversation is reasonably productive. Their request -- primarily Combeferre's request, though Enjolras raised the question with Bar -- was for either more shelving to be installed in their current room, or for a larger room intended for two and with enough storage space for the collection of oddities and equipment Combeferre is likely to keep amassing.

"And no cherubs," Combeferre added. "If you please."

Bar indicated, via orange notes, that shelving would be possible, but that a larger room was equally possible and likely more useful, and that she suggested examining the options to see if they would suit. It's fair enough, Enjolras has to admit. If none of them seem workable -- for example if every large room involves blue and cherubs or Bahorel's rocks-and-red-velvet... thing -- then they can always return to request shelves and any other modifications Combeferre would prefer.

So Combeferre and Enjolras are now making their way through the upstairs hallway comparing room numbers with those inscribed on a ring of keys.

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Bar has thoughtfully provided them with a key to Paris Violets. It's Room 210.

Combeferre opens the door, and follows Enjolras inside.

It's...purple. At least, the carpet is, a deep rich violet that's not unpleasant in itself, but Combeferre wonders what it has to do with Paris. The walls are a buttery yellow. Again, not inherently ugly, but it jars oddly with the violet.

One bed is large enough to fit four Combeferres, possibly five Enjolrases (Enjolrai?). The other, though smaller, has a silky cover that seems almost indecent.

Walking around, he sees that it is large--more than large enough for their purposes. But not, he thinks, conducive to peaceful study.

"Well," says Combeferre. "Er. Not this one, I think, unless you like it?"

Enjolras is directing a faintly bemused look at the room, and has been since they entered.

Nothing especially Parisian is immediately apparent. Although the name suggests that the sketch -- etching? art, anyway -- which looks like the Eiffel Tower he's seen depicted in books is probably indeed of the Eiffel Tower rather than a similar structure elsewhere.

He's moved on to directing his bemused look at the bathroom, which is not only entirely unnecessarily huge but includes inexplicable glass windows around the bathtub. (Guess who has yet to encounter a shower?)

"Not especially."

He could ignore the color of the walls easily enough, of course, but he has no great desire to do so. And a room that contains pictures of a Paris he's never seen seems... less than appealing, on the whole.

By common consent, they leave the "Parisian" room with no tug of homesickness to call them back.

The next key on the ring is for Room 208: the Pony Room. Combeferre was always fond of horses, so he thinks this might not be a terrible fit.

They go in. His customary open-mindedness helps him in the adjustment process, as he changes his mind immediately. It's red, but not the red of roses, or of blood, or of cherries, or of Bahorel's waistcoats. It's an odd red not found in nature. And it's everywhere. There's no respite, no bit of calm.

Also, there's a horse in the middle of the room. Combeferre scrutinizes it. "Are we meant to sit on it?"

That might be rather...fun.

Some of Bahorel's waistcoats might be that color. Enjolras doesn't keep track of them. (None of them are. But Bahorel has been known to despair at great length and volume of the extent to which Enjolras does not pay attention to things like precise shades of fabric.)

"Perhaps?"

Or else it's a child's toy, but he has no idea why that would be in the center of a room. Unless it's just decorative.

It doesn't look especially comfortable, as chairs go.

In this room, both beds are vast. He leaves Combeferre to examine the horse, and goes to look at the adjoining room. (Another bathroom, once again lightly gilded and the size of a poor family's entire lodgings, but this time in more of the same aggressive red.)

Combeferre looks more closely at the horse. It's got some sort of spring mechanism. It's clearly meant to provide some sort of motion when sat upon.

"Enjolras? Could you come here a moment?" Combeferre calls out to the bathroom, where Enjolras has gone to look.

Enjolras, of course, comes over obediently.

There's nothing in Combeferre's tone to indicate that anything is wrong; this is, instead, the extremely familiar sound of scientific curiosity, and probably of imminent experimentation.

"If you could indulge me for a moment? I think this horse is meant for someone to sit on, and to...well, bounce up and down, with this spring mechanism here, you see? Would you mind trying it? So I can take a look at the spring as you do."

Combeferre has let a wheedling tone creep into his voice, probably because he's aware that he's asking Enjolras to do something mildly ridiculous.

But Enjolras has done more than this to aid Combeferre's inquiries in the course of their friendship.

It's true. It's nearly impossible to be close friends with Combeferre without being drawn into occasionally ridiculous inquiries into natural philosophy and medicine, and Enjolras is generally willing when not otherwise occupied.

This includes now. Enjolras gives him a tolerant look, and then swings his leg over the miniature horse's back.

His feet are still on the ground, and there are no stirrups. Well.

If it's meant to be a toy, fine, but if it's meant to be any kind of instruction in horsemanship it's sadly lacking. This is nothing like sitting on even a small pony, and the saddle which is molded to its back is both strange and shoddily constructed.

(The light of the room's many lamps, and its more uncomfortably bright lights set into the ceiling, gleams on the red walls and reflects glitteringly from the mirrors scattered about the room. Amidst such surroundings, Enjolras's black suit is a single somber note, set off by his bright hair and rosy face, the noble profile warmed now by tolerant affection; set off, too, by the lacquered shine of the black horse he's sitting on. Its mane gleams.)

After a moment, he essays a somewhat dubious bounce.

Combeferre has grown very used to Enjolras's appearance over the years, but every so often it does impress him anew. Such as now. Enjolras looks rather like a Romantic fantasy of a paladin of old, astride the horse and glowing in the room's brazen lights.

Turning his attention back to the spring, Combeferre examines it as Enjolras bounces. "Hmmmmmmm." He makes some mental notes about material and craftsmanship, and considers which section of the Milliways library is likely to be most helpful in understanding this toy.

After a moment, he says, with a wry smile, "Thank you. I've made my observations, so there's no need for you to stay on if you'd rather climb down."

"What do you think of it?"

He's likely to understand at most one word in three, if Combeferre talks for long, but he's interested in his friend's interest, at least.

...But, having been given permission, he does get off the device. The ridiculousness doesn't entertain him, and without that appeal it's not an overly comfortable seat.

Combeferre doesn't talk for long, by Combeferre's standards, but he does talk. With a digression on the history of the watch-spring and Robert Hooke's invention of it in 1678, and his description of the principles behind springs in De potentia restutiva, and how it's a fascinating illustration of the false hierarchy in the sciences between "mere" practical tinkerers and supposedly higher-thinking natural philosophers, and how Combeferre didn't fully appreciate this problem until he began discussing things with Feuilly...

...yes, well, maybe it is long.

When he pauses for breath, he decides to follow his whimsy and climb onto the horse. He does this awkwardly, with none of Enjolras's nigh-supernatural grace. Once on the horse, he bounces vigorously, enjoying himself more than a grown man should, until he hears a crack beneath him and topples to the floor.

"Ow," says Combeferre, rubbing his elbows. "Do you think Bar will penalize me somehow, for damaging the horse?"

Enjolras had moved over to experimentally sit on the vast and extremely soft bed while he listened. Thus, nigh-supernatural grace in springing to his feet or not, he isn't of any use in catching Combeferre before both he and the spring-mounted horse topple over.

"Are you all right?"

Having ascertained that the only damage to Combeferre is bruised elbows and slightly bruised pride, he offers him a hand up. (Thankfully, though of course there's no need for concern, not with this place's resources and the shortness of that fall; still, Enjolras would have to admit to a twinge of unnecessary relief if pressed.)

"I have no idea. We'll apologize, I suppose." Do you apologize to a mechanical Bar? It's probably safer to do so. And the apology should at any rate be passed on to the rats or whoever handles the cleaning. "Unless you can fix it?"

"I'm all right," says Combeferre, taking Enjolras's hand and heaving himself up. "And I can't fix it, no. It requires tools and materials I don't have with me. I suppose apologizing is the best course." He winces.

"Not this room, either, I think. Shall we leave a note of explanation and apology, and move on?"

Enjolras would have been willing to stay here if Combeferre had really wanted to, but he's just as glad that's not the case. He doesn't much care to stay in a room so unrelentingly colorful with a broken toy horse in the middle of it.

"Let's."

Down the hall to room 212, which...

"No," Enjolras says, flatly and unnecessarily, at the sight of the fleur-de-lis set into the door in glass.

No cherubs, they said. No Bourbon emblems hadn't occurred to him as necessary to specify.

"No," Combeferre agrees, with a shudder. "Is Bar mocking us?" Others speak of Bar like a person. If so, it--she--may be capable of teasing.

Not amusing, Bar.

"Shall we go on, then?"

Enjolras doesn't answer. He has no more knowledge than Combeferre of the answer to the first question, and the second is self-explanatory. He only strides on down the corridor towards the next door.

206, with a plain door entirely lacking in monarchist heraldry.

The two beds are, again, huge, but the room's layout might otherwise be fairly practical. That is, if not for the miniature building attacked to the wall and looming over them. Enjolras regards it doubtfully as he steps inside.

The walls are also rather colorful. And glittery, except where they're covered with a pastoral mural. Or with fist-sized rocks. And the furniture is... dainty.

But the layout is otherwise reasonable, and the large windows would supply good sunlight. He looks over for Combeferre's reaction.

Combeferre blinks.

"The shape and size and layout seem fine," he says slowly. "And the water wheel." The water wheel, with its little animated figures, seems pretentious for Combeferre's tastes--but it's a water wheel, and therefore somewhat interesting. Though if this is truly meant to approximate a mill, Combeferre will laugh.

"The glitter, though." Combeferre can ignore the glitter, but he'd be just as pleased not to. Though there's something amusing about watching Enjolras against a background of a wall bedecked with glitter. It clashes with his Spartan sensibilities, yes; nevertheless, it still suits him on a purely aesthetic level. A painter or sculpture would no doubt enjoy the sight. Combeferre suppresses a grin.

"Shall we mark this down as a possibility, and look to see what else is there?"

"Reasonable," Enjolras agrees.

He's also capable of ignoring glitter, and little animated figures, and an improbable structure built into the wall. But he would also be just as pleased to not be obliged to do so on a daily basis.

On to the next one!

Room 218, whose key is inexplicably pink. So is the door.

So is the entire room.

The structure of exposed roof beams is similar to that of Joly and Combeferre's room, but it looks differently bizarre in top-to-toe pink.

Differently bizarre. Yes. Well, now Combeferre knows that Bar is mocking them. (Also disregarding their specific requests, he thinks, noting the golden cherubs). Combeferre can be blissfully unaware of sexual implications to some extent, especially when absorbed in another subject.

But even he can't miss the construction that Bahorel or Bossuet, just for instance, would put on the rose-pink triangle of converging beams.

Combeferre does not share this insight with Enjolras. "No," he says firmly. "Trust me. And anyway, we told Bar we didn't want cherubs. Let's move on."

Trust me indicates that Enjolras would prefer not to know the answer, which itself narrows down the range of possible reasons. Enjolras, accordingly, does not inquire. He only steps back, a bemused knot to his eyebrows, and closes the very pink door behind them.

Next comes room 200, which...

...which actually seems fairly reasonable. It has some small and very thick tufted rugs, and a great deal of open space, and some inexplicable branches among the lamps, but none of that would interfere much with life or horrify visitors.

By now Enjolras is somewhat wary that that's a sign of godawful statuary in the bathroom, or something. He trades a glance with Combeferre, looking for his reaction, and goes to investigate the other rooms.

Edited 2015-01-14 18:43 (UTC)

No offensive colors. No carnal innuendo. No outrages against the human eye.

Also: a large room, plenty of space for whatever Combeferre might want.

"I think this would be adequate," says Combeferre. "Better than the one with the glitter. Shall we mark this down as our current favorite, and keep searching?"

"Yes, I'd agree."

There is not, in fact, godawful statuary in the bathroom. The room is unnecessarily huge, but that means there ought to be room to add a bathtub if Bar's willing.

"There's no bathtub." Which is just strange. What on earth did the designer of the room expect people to do to keep clean? In a place with unlimited hot water like this, there's no reason residents should have to wash in a basin. "But perhaps we can fix that. Other than that, it seems fairly reasonable."

The next room is numbered 169, with Vous written on the key in a fine ornate script, for some reason.

It's blue.

It's very, very blue.

But without any cherubs!

Combeferre has no idea why the room is apparently called Vous. Is this another statement of royalist or aristocratic allegiance, perhaps? Another teasing jab from Bar?

...and it is, in fact, extremely blue. There is a single blue round bed--at least, it must be a bed, though it looks more like an overgrown pillow thrown on the floor--which is a particularly dark and intense blue. The walls have some sort of light blue floral design over darker blue. The chairs are a sky-blue leather. The lamps have a blue pattern. There are one or two pink objects, but it's mostly just blue, blue, blue. Relentlessly so. At least the barricade's flag would stand out properly against such a background--but that sardonic thought isn't an actual endorsement.

(Given Bar's previous choice of rooms, Combeferre also has a niggling suspicion about what she's implying with the sole bed. It would be wholly ordinary and innocent for Enjolras and Combeferre, as for anyone of their time and place, and Bar likely knows that, but--well. Combeferre has read things that imply that future times and places are different in this regard. And Bar evidently likes to joke. Well, let her; it does no harm.)

"Well, we would match Joly and Bossuet," is all Combeferre says, dryly.

(Enjolras has not read these things, and has no inkling that any joke or other implication might be intended. So far as he's concerned, it's a sensible use of space -- one of the more sensible things about any of these rooms, really, especially since the beds are more than large enough for two friends to comfortably share.)

He snorts, amused. "I suppose so."

He crosses his arms, regarding the room. "It's a bit like living in a hatbox." It's the curvature of the walls.

And the wallpaper. And the everything.

He could live here, because Enjolras could live just about anywhere contentedly with a bed, bathing facilities, and books of political philosophy, but he's just as glad Combeferre isn't likely to want to.

"Let's keep searching?" No, Combeferre isn't likely to want to.

Room 133 is next, called Cabin Still. Combeferre raises an eyebrow, but opens the door anyway.

And likes what he sees. Rock floor, copper walls and pipes, a copper boiling tank...Combeferre walks into the bathroom and sees a still. He immediately begins to think of all the things he could do with the tank and the still. This room offers more than space to keep curious objects. It has built-in equipment.

Combeferre will probably keep looking at the still and envisioning possibilities until someone nudges him.

Enjolras has no idea that it's a still. But it looks like the kind of thing Combeferre enjoys doing mysterious experiments with!

And the rock floor is... well... it's solid, anyway; it looks much easier to clean the inevitable science spills from than the strange tufted carpet so many of the rooms have. And the flagstones are mortared quite securely in place. (Enjolras has an extremely educated eye for how easy paving stones might be to pry up.)

The random outcroppings of rock in the walls are more peculiar. But they have shelves built into them, so that's all right.

Leaving Combeferre to regard the bathroom piping as if it contains several wonders of the world, Enjolras goes to examine the rest of the room.

He does get somewhat distracted by the flat shiny rectangle displayed on a low table. Is it art, or a futuristic device, or some sort of furniture...?

Combeferre eventually pries himself away from the still when it occurs to him to ask how Enjolras likes the room. "What do you think? And, oh--what is that thing?" The flat rectangle must serve some purpose, unless it's decorative? Surely not.

"No idea."

He touches the side of it, curiously.

Enjolras is not enough accustomed to this kind of technology to guess that the little lumps along the side are discreet buttons, nor even to notice them as anything unusual amid the sleek lines and corners of the rest. All the same, he does accidentally manage to depress one.

And startles back at the sudden blare of color and sound. It's not all that loud, but it's a lot louder than the room was a moment ago.

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS CARMEN SANDIEGO?

The rectangle blasts out the question. A succession of mobile drawings appear on its surface. Combeferre peers at it, stunned, before he remembers reading about something called television.

He's still stunned. He hadn't imagined this.

A woman in a red coat and hat is running about the world stealing things, or having her employees steal things. In response, schoolchildren are...answering questions about geography?

"Oh," he says suddenly after a few moments of puzzlement. "It's an educational story! This tale of a daring lady thief--it makes the children eager to learn, of course!"

Combeferre turns to Enjolras, beaming widely. "There has been progress in educational methods, then--great progress! This seems much more effective, more imaginative, more cleverly designed to instruct a child while holding his interest, than anything I've seen in our time! And it appears to be universally accessible--look, see that symbol there? It says Public Broadcasting Services. If it's truly public, then surely anyone may watch this, at no cost?" He pauses for breath, and shakes his head. "What a marvel!"

Enjolras has seen television a few times, in the main barroom. But the screen didn't look quite like this, and he's always watched it more to marvel at the medium than to absorb the contents.

But Combeferre's interest -- Combeferre's delight, Combeferre's leap of insight -- makes him smile back, at first only in reflexive answer to his friend's joy, but soon brightening to a shining satisfaction of his own.

(Satisfaction, and deep affection. He will always marvel at his friend's capabilities.)

"Imagine. Education available to any child, even in the form of public theater."

Or... games, or whatever this is.

The display on the tv, which seemed at first to be a loud and colorful intrusion into these potential lodgings, has become far more welcome; it carries with its noise and bustle a shining aura of hope.

Combeferre has not yet spent enough time in the main barroom to take note of television, so this is his first encounter. And what an encounter it is!

"I suspect it's a very effective form," he says. "Though I would want to read more."

Enjolras is smiling, and Combeferre feels a bone-deep contentment at the sight. But he remembers to ask, "So--you like this room, too, then? Shall we mark it down as the current favorite, and look at a couple of others before deciding?"

"Yes, it'll do."

He doesn't love it as Combeferre clearly does, but that's all right: he has no objections, and Combeferre clearly loves it.

He turns his attention back to the device, which is currently displaying several men in very colorful shirtsleeves singing a peculiar and somewhat discordant song. The song does, at least, stay in keeping with the educational theme by naming several countries and cities. "How does one silence this?"

Experimentally touching the area he touched before makes the thing get slightly louder and slightly quieter, and the picture change with a jarring abrupt flicker to a woman holding onions in a shiny room that might be a laboratory and then back to the singing men, before the rectangle goes black and silent again.

"These little lumps seem to be the mechanisms." He's giving a bemused look to Combeferre and the screen both. Of course; why not tiny lumps to control all this? (There's also a remote control, but Enjolras has not investigated the drawers to discover it, and wouldn't know what to do with it in any case until he discovered the page of directions underneath.)

This, of course, is Combeferre's cue to press the tiny lumps repeatedly. He makes the rectangle get deafeningly loud and then whisper-soft. He brings back the picture of the singing men, and then changes it back to the laboratory filled with food, then to a couple locked in passionate embrace, then to two women in odd dark suits arguing in front of what looks vaguely like a judge, and then to men in blue chasing after another man and tackling him to the ground. The last picture he switches to has one man in yellow, a pointy-eared (like Elrond?) man in blue, an ordinary-looking man in blue, and a black lady in red, all standing about some important-looking gray machines.

Combeferre finally pushes the tiny lump that shuts off the sound and pictures, and turns to Enjolras. "Shall we, then?"

The next key is for Room 183.

Combeferre opens the door, only to be confronted with pink. Violent pink. Bahorelian pink. He shudders.

Enjolras retreats a prudent few steps, wincing, when the noise becomes deafening. Otherwise, he watches with fascination -- although he also averts his gaze from certain scenes.

(Are these fantastically detailed drawings, somehow, or some kind of miniaturized image of real people, or some other method entirely? He has no idea.)

At length, Combeferre switches off the device. Enjolras follows to the next room. Which is, indeed, violently pink. Numerous shades of violent pink, from the walls to the carpet to the upholstery to the ceiling beams to the spiral staircase in the center of the room. There are flowers. There are little painted birds. There's a hulking piece of furniture like a crossbreed between a sofa and a balcony.

Combeferre has, in fact, shuddered at the sight of it.

Enjolras looks across the room again. It's certainly full of... design choices.

"It has a second storey," he points out. Blandly.

Now Enjolras has joined Bar in teasing him. Well, Enjolras is here to be glared at, even if Bar isn't, so glare Combeferre does. "Shall we go on?"

Enjolras is largely impervious to glares. This time is not an exception. He merely smiles faintly in reply, and slips his arm through Combeferre's as they turn back towards the hallway. "Let's."

Room 137, some distance down.

It's... rock.

Rock and skins. Like a...well, like a trite poet's imagination of what a savage's lair would look like.

(Yes, Combeferre thinks of some people as "savages." The narrator apologizes on his behalf, since he wouldn't think to do so for himself. Combeferre is a broad-minded man for his time and place, but he's still of that time and place).

Combeferre steps into the bathroom and sees a stained glass picture of a nearly-naked man carrying a stone club.

He turns around and speedily walks back out. "I vote no," he says.

That's fine, says Enjolras's face without words and without protest, though he hadn't followed to see whatever startled Combeferre so much in the bathroom.

He could live here, as he could live in most of these rooms, but it's all a bit much.

Especially that ceiling made of paving stones.

"Only a few left."

So, on to room 158, which...

which Enjolras does not have any vocabulary to describe.

It's colorful?

Combeferre has the vocabulary! Combeferre has words for most things.

The words that come to mind here are ouch and appalling and oh god why.

The carpet looks like it's made from scraps of odd, irregular geometric shapes, all in aggressive and ugly colors: bright pink, harsh blue, bilious green, red, black. It not only hurts the eye, it dizzies the brain. And then on top of that carpet there's a bed with a cluttered pattern of flowers.

The whole effect is the opposite of peace and quiet. Combeferre can't imagine studying anything at all there.

They move on to Room 122.

Which...does not look terrible. Or especially interesting. It's almost obscenely large--three bedrooms and a sitting room, each bigger than his Parisian apartment--but nothing in the room is wounding. He turns to Enjolras. "What do you think?"

Combeferre doesn't expect a detailed answer. He knows Enjolras too well for that. But he wants to make sure their living quarters are acceptable to Enjolras, even if Enjolras's aesthetic preferences are few and mostly not very strong.

Enjolras is frowning a little, having surveyed the rooms. (All six of them.)

"Any one of these rooms would be fine. But all this, for two of us?"

He knows Combeferre will find more use for the space than he will, but nevertheless. This isn't bachelor lodgings; it's larger than many houses.

"It feels excessive, yes. Let's look at the last one?"

The last one is Room 161.

Combeferre enters, and groans. The room looks like a particularly boring vision of the Christian afterlife. Pale pinks and golds, crystal stars, and--

"Cherubs," says Combeferre.

Really, Bar?

"Cherubs," Enjolras agrees.

Cherubs, and a bed with a headboard that might have been copied from a cathedral. Well.

"Not this one, unless you're fond of it, then?"

Combeferre takes one last disgusted look around. "Very well--Cabin Still? Room 133? The one where we watched the--the television? I liked that one, and I don't think there was any room either of us liked better."

Enjolras steps backwards into the hallway so he can close the door on the cherubs, in deference to Combeferre's outraged sensibilities.

"Yes. It's that or the one with the branches, I think, and you liked the other better."

It was moderately apparent.

"So how do we tell Bar that we want that one? Shall we go back downstairs?"

Idly, Combeferre wonders if Bar will play further jokes on them, or if she's exhausted her mischievous spirit for the nonce.

"I suppose so. We may as well, so we can return the other keys."

And get duplicate keys to 133: one key for each of them, of course, and copies for their friends as well, on general principles.

They return to Bar, and Combeferre places the old keys on the counter.

In their place appears two shiny golden keys, each with the number 89 carved into them.

Well. Combeferre throws a sidelong glance at Enjolras. It appears that number is following them.

He writes a note to leave with Bar, with five duplicate keys for their friends to replace the old ones:

Dear [Courfeyrac/Joly/Bossuet/Bahorel/Feuilly],

This key is for the new rooms Enjolras and I have moved into. The room number is the same, thanks to Bar's inscrutable motives. Naturally, you are welcome to look in on us at any time. The room has with some equipment for scientific experiment and is an excellent place to study. It also has a television.

Regards,

Combeferre

Enjolras returns the glance.

He's bemused, a little. But not at all displeased -- honored, if anything, and perhaps a little grateful -- to be followed by the number 89.

It's that sort of kindness, and the generosity that's beneath all these ridiculous rooms and the bowls of orange pasta, that makes up for any number of cherubs and blue walls.

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